


Elevator of Doom (Not Love, Not Even Affection)

by ArchangelUnmei



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Christmas Truce of 1914, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Nation-brand existentialism, Sort of Historical, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 22:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6132394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchangelUnmei/pseuds/ArchangelUnmei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France and England get trapped in an elevator, which leads (predictably) to a fight and (less predictably) to a trip down memory lane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elevator of Doom (Not Love, Not Even Affection)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinnyh](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=shinnyh).



> Written for shinnyh on tumblr, as part of the FrUK 2016 New Years exchange. The prompt was _"France and England were taking the elevator after a mundial meeting to go home. But unfortunately the power went off and they got stuck in the elevator. Now they have to find a way to kill time until they can leave."_
> 
> Hopefully this will suffice, sorry it's so very late. ;w;

The summit, this time, was in Paris. 

Paris this week, France thought a bit irritably as he shuffled his papers back together, Paris this week and New York last week and Berlin next week and Tokyo the week after that. Cooperation and spreading hosting duties out was all well and good, but _some_ governments said giving their national personifications private planes to ferry them all over the world was an _unnecessary expense_ , and most mystical Nation powers only worked within one's own borders. 

That thought paused him, and he thought longingly of his chateau in Nice. He could be there in just a few minutes, kicking off these dreadful shoes and stretching out on the couch with a bottle of wine. He didn't even have to pacify any politicians; today's summit had been a Nation-only meeting. 

But no, Germany and Netherlands and Belgium were huddled together in the corner discussing something-or-other, voices low but gestures emphatic. North Italy and Luxembourg were lingering by the door waiting for them, chatting idly about... Formula One, it sounded like, or Monaco's figure. Knowing them, it could have been either. England was taking far longer then necessary to gather up his belongings too, either waiting to pounce Germany for a word of his own, or looking for a reason to harass France. (France wasn't sure which he'd prefer, in this case.) 

Everyone else had already vacated, most of them as quickly as possible. Canada had paused long enough to assure France that they were still on for dinner; he wanted to go back to his hotel room long enough to change and then he'd meet France in the lobby. 

France sighed and dropped the last of his notebooks into his bag, stretching his legs out under the table and slipping his phone out of his pocket. He might as well check on his cats while he waited, and at this rate he'd have to text Canada and say he'd be late. 

(He didn't even bother to try and eavesdrop on the trio in the corner. With those three he really, _really_ didn't want to know.) 

It was Italy and Luxembourg that saved him, almost a quarter of an hour later, when they finally got tired of waiting. Luxembourg shouldered his way between his siblings, smiling sweetly as he took Belgium's arm and practically dragged her backward. Italy was even less subtle, draping himself over Germany's shoulder and licking the shell of his ear. Germany yelped like he'd been shot, and Netherlands blinked, his expression easing into amusement. "Sorry for keeping him," he told Italy, smirked at Germany's mortified face, and followed his siblings out, whistling. 

France felt like applauding as Germany made a strangled sound and bodily picked Italy up to haul him out of the room. Italy was laughing, and France suspected that Germany was carrying him off for either a sound lecture, an enthusiastic fuck in the nearest broom closet, or (knowing Germany) both. For once, France had no intention of skulking around to try and discover which. He was already late to meet Canada, and right now all he wanted was a glass of wine, a smoke, and a very big steak. 

He'd actually gotten to his feet and shouldered his bag before he noticed that England was still in the room, calmly perched on the edge of the table with his nose in a book. France made some sound of surprise and he looked up, finger carefully hooked to keep his place in the book. "Yes?" He blinked, looking over at the corner, and then around at the rest of the room, empty except for France. "...Damn." 

France rolled his eyes. "Interesting reading?" He made his voice as dry as he could manage, but England didn't rise to the bait, just smiled sweetly and held up a battered copy of _Temeraire_. France twitched and pursed his lips, but then turned on his heel to go. Wine, smoke, steak, soon. It wasn't worth delaying to have the same argument with England he'd had at least three times before. 

He heard England's footsteps behind him, but ignored them. Since there hadn't been any human dignitaries at this meeting, they'd opted for a smaller, more private hotel on the outskirts of Paris; it had been in business since before the Second World War, survived the German occupation, and France found it charming. The elderly woman who ran it just smiled every time she saw him, and he made a point of always bringing her flowers and a flourishing kiss for the back of her hand. But because the building was so old, it had only one elevator, installed later during post-war renovations. 

He pressed the call button as England came to a stop beside him, and they had to wait a minute as the elevator returned from its latest trip taking Netherlands and his siblings down to the lobby. 

"You could take the stairs," France said pointedly, but didn't bother to look and see England rolling his eyes. 

"So could you, it's only four floors." 

The elevator humming to a stop before them kept them from any further argument, and they both stepped on. France pressed the button for the lobby and looked over just in time to see England checking his watch, an ancient old-fashioned thing that he wore on a chain in his pocket. "Appointment to keep?" he found himself asking, not sure if he was being polite or needling for a fight. It had been a long day. 

"Ah?" England glanced up, clicking his watch shut. "Train, actually. I have meetings in London early tomorrow morning." 

"Excellent," France put enough cheerfulness into his voice that England shot him a sour look and elbowed him sharply. "I love it when you vacate my city immediately." 

England snorted. "That's not what you said in-" 

France didn't get to find out whether England was going to say _1944_ or _1837_ or any of a dozen other years he could have named, because the elevator made a low grating sound and stopped moving. 

Both of them frowned; according to the lights above the door, they were somewhere between the second and third floors. "What in the-" 

Another low clunk, and then the lights went out. 

~*~ 

"Hey, what're you still doing here?" 

Canada turned, unsurprised to see America ambling toward him, a frozen frappicino in one hand. Starbucks was worldwide, and America had a radar. 

"France and I were going to grab dinner, I just went to change first. But I haven't seen him come down." 

"Huh," America slurped at his drink thoughtfully. "He actually stays until everyone else has left, huh?" 

"Yes, because he's a _good_ host." 

America held his hand up defensively, giving Canada an innocent look that fooled him not at all. "Not my fault my schedule's so tight I can't afford to stick around for three hours while Hungary yells at Russia and Russia looks _really really_ creepy." 

"You'd think you'd want to be around for any international incidents happening on your soil, especially when they involve Russia..." Canada sighed and waved a hand to dismiss the subject, not willing to set America up on a Russia-based tangent when he couldn't easily get away. "Netherlands came down with Belgium and Luxembourg a few minutes ago, and I _think_ that was pretty much everyone." 

"Hm," America eyeballed the elevator doors on the other side of the lobby, then pulled his phone out of his pocket and sat down on the couch next to Canada. He busily began doing... something, and Canada sighed again. 

"America, really, you don't have to stay-" 

"Plane leaves when I tell it to," America said, distracted enough that he missed his brother's glare. "Aha! Look at this!" 

He held out his phone triumphantly, and Canada squinted at the grainy, green-tinted image with mounting incredulity. "...Wait, did you just hack the security system? From your _phone_?" 

"Sure," America grinned, guileless, and Canada made a mental note to check his own security systems when he got home. All the security systems in Ottawa, if necessary. And Toronto. "Elevator's busted, it looks like, but check out who's stuck in there with France." 

"Oh tabernac," Canada took a closer look at the screen, where two men were sensibly (for the moment) sitting on the floor, back-to-back. "We're doomed. Any chance you can get them out before one of them declares war?" 

"Um," America shrugged, started fiddling around with his phone. "Maybe?" 

"Just try." Canada wondered if it was too late to leave and claim ignorance when the Hundred Years War reignited. 

~*~ 

"If you don't stop humming, I'm going to shove this book down your throat." 

France paused, blinking into the darkness as he realized he'd absently started humming _La Marseillaise_. "...Sorry." 

England's bony shoulderblades shifted against his own as the other Nation tried to shift into a more comfortable position on the cold tile floor. "Apology accepted." 

Emergency lights set into the control panel had come on, bathing the small space in a watery blue-white glow. After the first confused panic had sent both of them tumbling painfully to the floor (England's elbows were _sharp_ ), France had insisted they both _sit_ until they were rescued, preferably _quietly_. 

"You're not actually trying to _read_ in this light, are you?" 

"Oh God, no," England snorted. "It's just the only thing I have on hand that I'd be willing to sacrifice to your face." 

"A _book_ , really? I'm suitably honored." 

England elbowed him again for his sass, and France thought uncharitably about bruised ribs. He took a breath, falling quiet again. _He_ could get out of here quite easily. He closed his eyes, letting himself go unfocused. Instead of the tile of the elevator, he thought of the grassy hills at the foot of the Alps, warm from the sun and fresh from the rain. He could feel the Seine and the Rhine flowing through him, the pulse from his heart. Even England's spine against his came undone, became the White Cliffs of Dover, softened by the Channel and the winds from the north- 

England shifted behind him, grabbed him in a headlock and mussed a hand over his hair viciously enough to pull him back to his physical body with a reeling jolt. France let out a noise of shocked protest, scrambling for purchase until he could wrap one hand in England's hair and the other in the noose of his tie, trying to pull him off. "You brute, I was almost in Nice-" 

"Fine host you are, fucking off and leaving me here," England growled at him, eyebrows lowered in a thundercloud as he tried to jerk his head out of France's grip, his arm tightening around France's throat and one wirey leg wrapping around France's to try and keep him from kicking. "That's cheating!" 

"If we were in London you would have done the same damned thing-" 

"I would _not_ , I am a gentleman-" 

"Ha!" France twisted, still caught in a headlock but managing to turn enough that England's arm was pressed against his jaw instead of his throat. He jerked his head backward enough to catch England's nose with the back of his skull, and England unwound all at once, letting him go with a series of muffled swears. The two of them rolled away from each other and ended up at opposite corners of the elevator, England curled forward with his handkerchief pressed to his nose and France still sprawled half on the floor, absently trying to finger-comb his hair back into order. For a few minutes the only sounds were their heavy breathing and the faint buzz of the emergency lights. 

"...Is it broken?" France finally ventured once he'd caught his breath, staring up at the ceiling rather than across at England. 

England grunted in answer, blew his nose to clear it of the last of the blood. (They must truly be in a modern society; the only casualties of his last several scuffles with France had been handkerchiefs and suit coats.) "Was, 's fine now." 

"Ah." 

For a few more minutes the silence reigned, France thinking longingly of the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. He'd already texted Canada to let him know about the delay; Canada had sent back a slightly harried response that the hotel was aware of the problem and was working to figure out how to fix the elevator. 

"Do you remember the Great War?" 

England's question was so far away from France's own thoughts that it took him a few moments to process it, and then he gave England a look like he thought the other Nation might have gone slightly mad. "England, my darling, have you been eating your own scones again?" 

England snarled at him, and if they'd been a bit closer their scuffle might have resumed. England's fingers twitched, like he really wished to strangle France or throw his sacrificial book at him, but he didn't. "I _meant_ ," he ground out, "Do you remember that foxhole?" 

There was a glib answer about how the Great War had been _all_ foxholes on the tip of France's tongue, but then he paused. He _did_ remember which one England meant. "...I still can't believe we were all actually in the same section of trenches that night." 

In the semi-darkness, France thought he saw the corner of England's mouth twitch up in a wry smile. "Serendipity." 

It was France's turn to snort. "As though you believe in fate." 

England just shrugged. France decided to hell with it; if the Paris police wanted to arrest him once they got out of here, they were welcome to. He scooted around so he was sitting a bit nearer to England and fished his cigarettes out of his pocket to offer England one. England stared at him, then gave a dry laugh and took one, pulling out his own lighter. 

It had been Christmas, 1914. France had been in Neuve Chapelle by chance, heading north for Ypres and searching for Belgium to try and convince her, once again, to retreat to someplace safer. The war hadn't been far advanced, none of them had known how bad it would get. The trenches had been shallow scores scratched across their backs, not the terrible infected wheals they'd become later. 

(France doesn't remember most of 1917; just a haze of hospitals and fevers, wounds that never healed. He can only imagine that it was just as bad for Belgium, never quite worked up the stomach to ask her.) 

He'd found her, and England with her, in the area attached to the British battalion at Neuve Chapelle. There had been rumors all week of the cessation of hostilities along the front lines, and so the three of them had gone down to the trenches to see. For as long as he's around, France will never, ever forget hearing familiar laughter and poking his head up above the barbed wire to see goddamned _Prussia_ , helmet off and coat unbuttoned, kicking a ball around with a group of British boys that were barely more than children. A dozen steps away, Germany was standing with another German soldier and a pair of British, swapping cigarettes for canned meat and a few precious sweets. 

Christmas Eve, the five of them had huddled in a foxhole with a bottle of half-decent whiskey that Prussia had scrounged from God knows where and all the cigarettes they were carrying. Belgium had smoked through half of them herself, Prussia leaning half-drunk and drowsing against her shoulder. Germany, always, was a bit aloof, but that was just his nature, and he passed the bottle readily when England held out his hand for it. They'd talked about everything except the war, breath fogging in the chilled air, and when the soldiers started singing _Auld Lang Syne_ they'd all fallen quiet. 

"We're going to set off the smoke alarms," England murmured softly, somehow pulling France out of his thoughts of the past without breaking the quiet mood. 

France chuckled softly, holding his own cigarette out for a light. "I bet that'll get us out of here faster. Are you comparing this to a foxhole?" 

"The company was better then, at least," England said dryly, and ducked when France took a half-hearted swipe at him. "No, what I meant was... That foxhole was on your land, wasn't it? You could have left, gone back to Paris or wherever, but you didn't." 

"I..." France frowned, took a slow drag of his cigarette. "I wasn't sure if I'd see any of you again. That was the last time I saw Prussia and Germany until 1921. And it was Christmas, it didn't feel right to leave." 

"And Dunkirk," England pressed, apparently trying to make a point, and France suppressed a shudder. "I watched, France, you _stayed_. I was on the last ship off and I watched you stand there on the shore and surrender when the German tanks advanced. _You_ , personally." 

France swallowed. "I wasn't leaving them." He was surprised how hoarse his voice sounded, and England reached across to grab his hand. 

"I know," England said, surprisingly gently. "I know you're not a coward. You don't fuck off when it counts. That's what I was trying to say." 

France stared at England's hand over his, and was saved from making any reply as the fire alarms went off, deafening them both. England rolled his eyes expressively and tapped ash pointedly onto the tile floors. 

France let his head rest back against the wall, and turned his hand enough to clasp England's in return. 

It was another fifteen minutes before the doors finally cracked open, though luckily for their sanity someone had cut the fire alarms after just a few minutes. Canada was there to help pull them up; the elevator car was indeed stuck halfway between the second and third floors. For some reason he looked very flustered, and when they finally went downstairs they found America in the lobby, recovering from what looked like a truly epic fit of laughter. 

"No, no, you _have_ to see-" he insisted over Canada's protests. "Germany and Italy were in the _utility closet_ , see, and it happened to have the elevator's electrical panels in it, and Germany _kicked_ them-" 

France groaned, and England burst out laughing. Italy and Germany themselves were no where to be seen, they'd probably fled as fast as they could once they realized what they'd done. 

"Do you have the security footage?" England was asking, sounding entirely too gleeful, and France shook his head and took Canada by the arm. 

"Come, dear, let's get dinner after all. I want no part of whatever they're planning." 

"And they don't think they're related," Canada said dryly, casting one last glance back as he and France left the hotel. "You're not hurt, are you France?" 

"Hm?" France blinked at him, and Canada looked sheepish. 

"We were sorta watching on the security cameras, we saw you and England fighting." 

France laughed, wrapping his arm around Canada's shoulders to give him a half-hug. "Canada, darling, that was barely a Saturday night for us. Now come, I am going to get a very large, rare steak and charge it to the Italian government." 

"Don't do that," Canada sighed, but he was smiling as he followed France down the street.

**Author's Note:**

> How do all my fics end up as weird historical existentialism??
> 
>  _Temeraire_ , the book England's reading, is the first book in the same-titled series by Naomi Novik. It was released in North America under the title _His Majesty's Dragon_. The series is basically "What if the Napoleonic Wars had an air force? What if that air force was DRAGONS?" It's a wonderful series, everyone who likes historical fiction and/or Franco-British relations (duh?) and/or dragons needs to read it.


End file.
